Cold Season
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John removed his hand, letting it fall. "How didn't I notice you were sick?" Sherlock sniffled. "Because there was no reason to employ your medical prowess," he muttered, rubbing his nose.
1. Bit of a Cold

**Cold Season**

1

Sherlock had gone to bed with a partially stuffy nose and he had known that the worst had happened: he'd caught one the many hundreds of illnesses going around London right now.

Probability stated that it was a cold or flu, given the type of weather outside and the fact that it _was_ cold and flu season. Sherlock didn't have time for being sick, at all, let alone with flu. He would have to wait and see, of course, what was happening within his body, but he did known that he was sick. Getting sick.

When he woke up, his nose, the left nostril, was still stuffy. Not a case of something vanishing overnight. Sherlock hadn't thought it was, but a consulting detective could hope.

By the time that John stumbled down the stairs two hours later, the one-sided stuffiness had let out to deviating between being stuffy and running. Sherlock found this more annoying than the stuffy nose; his nose would run, but if he tried to blow it, it was instantly stopped up.

"Morning," John commented, rubbing his eyes.

"Hm." Sherlock didn't look up from the newspaper. "Bad night."

"Huh?"

"You didn't sleep well," he clarified.

"Oh. No," John mumbled. "You showered?"

"It's all yours," Sherlock said.

"Good," John mumbled, stumbling over his dressing gown as it trailed the floor.

Sherlock glanced up once the bathroom door had firmly closed, letting the newspaper fall into his lap so he could grab the travel pack of tissues from where he had shoved them down the back of the sofa. John would definitely notice a box of tissues and, being a man of health, he would _definitely_ notice if Sherlock started snivelling in front of him.

He blew his nose, rubbed his nose, and pushed the used tissue into his dressing gown pocket. This was tedious, he thought, picking up the newspaper again.

His secrecy was shattered, however, by late afternoon. John had been intrigued with the television when Sherlock found another side-effect: congestion in the nose tended to wreak havoc with other things nearby, such as his eyes. So, when the bridge of his nose near his left eye started to pulse slightly, his eye filled with tears and spilled over. Scoffing under his breath with irritation, Sherlock brushed the 'tears' away and flicked the wetness from his fingers.

It didn't stop, of course, and he ended up pressing his dressing gown sleeve against his eye to soak up the wetness.

"That's... interesting," John muttered, talking about the television but looking at Sherlock as he said it. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock dropped his arm, looking at John. Half-squinting at him. His eye felt puffy at the moment, like he'd been crying. Lovely.

"What's wrong?" John asked, getting to his feet.

Sherlock sighed. He was so good at the miscalculation of the facts, John. "Nothing." He rubbed his eye briefly. "I've just got a bit of a cold."

John frowned. "A cold?"

"Yes. That's what I said." Sherlock pulled a tissue from his pocket to blow his nose. "It's rather unfortunate."

"_You've_ got a cold," John repeated.

"Would I look like this if I didn't?" Sherlock retorted, tossing the tissue to the bin. He missed and he sighed heavily through his nose. Colds impaired not only easy thinking, but menial activities as well, apparently.

John binned the tissue without blinking at the fact that Sherlock had just used it. He joined him to press his hand against his forehead.

Sherlock sighed again. "I do not have a fever, John. It's only a cold. It's cold and flu season, after all."

John removed his hand, letting it fall back to his side. "How didn't I notice you were sick?"

Sherlock sniffled. "Because there was no reason to employ your medical prowess," he muttered, rubbing his nose.

John sighed. "You could have told me. I won't doctor you."

"Yet," Sherlock muttered.

"Let me know if you get a fever. It could be flu," he said, turning to the kitchen

"Don't say that," Sherlock muttered, returning his attention to his laptop. "I don't have time to be sick, much less being ravaged by flu."

"Take some cold medicine."

Sherlock nodded once. "Already did."

"Good," John replied, disappearing beyond the bathroom doorway. He returned momentarily, drying his hands on his jeans. "You want some tea?"

"Mm... sure," Sherlock said, hunkering down in his chair.

By nightfall, he was thoroughly miserable. His nose was intent on running, his eye watering, his ears felt a bit full, a vein under his eye throbbing. It was like half of his face was melting. He more or less managed to keep it from John, staying out of John's direct line of sight after the doctor had gotten back from the pub. Sherlock was in the bath - attempting to combat illness with steam rising from the water - when he got home and he had gone to bed by the time he'd come out.

Sherlock didn't care. He went to bed, too.

By five in the morning when his alarm blared at him - and after a few choice words, slamming his hand on the alarm - he not only hadn't slept worth a damn but the cold had moved to the right side of his face now. He couldn't breathe out of the right side of his nose and now _both_ eyes were red and puffy.

If he felt bad, he thought that he had to _look_ horrible now. John would most certainly try to doctor him now.

Sherlock just sighed, pressed his face into the pillow - which he had to remove shortly because he couldn't breathe well- and hoped in vain to be able to fall back asleep and, impossibly, wake up feeling back to his normal self.

* * *

**Multi!chapter sick!fic. Because I haven't done this before. ****Oh, God, you guys. This is miserable. Because Sherlock's not actually the only one who has this, _I_ do. And given that I've got 'experience' with it now, I'm trying to write it... albeit if I'm so miserable I just want to go back to bed. Too bad the cold keeps me awake. :p **

**[Not to mention I don't feel great about _Sherlock_ being over. I was kind of disappointed with _HLV_. Just saying. But that's a whole different ballgame here, haha.]**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Your reviews are always appreciated... You guys make me smile. :)**


	2. Is There a Doctor in the House?

A soft knock on the door drove Sherlock away from his half-hearted doze. "Sherlock? You awake?"

The bedroom door opened, John almost assuredly poking his head in.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, not moving.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, his footsteps signalling his presence growing closer.

Sherlock sighed. "I think the fact that I'm still in bed should answer that."

"Yeah, good point... Any better?"

"Worse," Sherlock said thinly, rolling over to face John. "And I imagine I look it."

"You do," John replied, putting his hand against his forehead again. "Did you get any sleep?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Not particularly. Stuffy nose, running nose... not particularly good components for restful sleep."

John looked at him sternly. "I think it's time for you to tell me."

Sherlock sighed again. "Do I have to?"

"Sherlock."

"Fine," he muttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "The nose, obviously, stuffy, runny. Congestion. Horrible congestion. Feeling it in my chest now," he muttered, tapping his chest. "Bit of a cough. My eyes are swollen, but you can see that."

"Any body aches or chills?" John pressed.

"No. Not yet. Tired."

"Yeah, you should have taken something with a sleeping agent," John said.

Sherlock glared weakly. "Well, I'll not be making that mistake again. Sensitivity to light and sound," he continued, pulling his pillow closer.

"That all?"

"Maybe a bit of a sore throat."

"Alright," John said. "I'm going to get you some medicine, and then-"

"I can do it myself," Sherlock said, slowly pushing the blankets away. "But the tea would be nice, if you were going to do it anyway."

John sighed but nodded. "I'm putting honey in it."

"I figured," Sherlock muttered, trudging to the bathroom. He picked up the cold tablets, taking a few more than was strictly 'healthy'. He was careful, though; he knew exactly how much of any substance it would take to strictly overdose on them. He knew his body; he knew his tolerance.

"A decongestant would help, too!" John called.

"I'm not even sure we have one," Sherlock muttered, although he started to paw through the medicines in the cabinet listlessly.

He had just found one and was reading through the information when John peered in.

"Where do you want your tea?"

"Out there," Sherlock said, waving towards the sitting room. "Be out in a minute."

"Alright."

Sherlock took the proper dosage of decongestant and joined John in the sitting room, flopping onto the sofa heavily. He picked up his tea and sipped at it contentedly. "Oh, this is miserable."

"Such as being sick tends to be," John said, prodding at the fire he had billowing in the grate. "You just need rest for a few days. It's probably just a cold, but if it doesn't get better, we'll see."

Sherlock breathed in the steam over his tea, closing his eyes. "Hm..."

He sniffled again after a moment when his nose started to run. He reached for the tissues in his dressing gown and came up empty. "... Ugh."

"What?"

"Out of tissues," he muttered, rubbing his nose.

"Oh, I've got some upstairs. Hang on."

Sherlock watched blankly as John ran upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time. Strange how quickly he changed... One minute, he was a bored flatmate and the next, army doctor. It was fascinating, really.

"Here."

Sherlock grabbed three and blew his nose. "Thanks," he muttered.

"Don't do that any more than necessary, either. You don't want a sinus infection."

"I know," Sherlock mumbled, gulping at his tea and then setting it aside to stretch out along the sofa.

"Hm..."

John's footsteps moved away again, but Sherlock didn't bother to figure the reason. He just closed his eyes and sighed nasally.

The footsteps returned. Sherlock still paid no mind until something wet and warm, and dark, descended over his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He inhaled in surprise and opened his eyes, although he could see nothing. A quick deduction told him it was a wet wash cloth...

"How's that feel?" John asked quietly.

"It feels bloody wonderful," Sherlock gasped, pressing his fingers more firmly against the cloth.

The smile was evident in John's tone when he spoke again. "Good. Try to... here, budge up."

Sherlock allowed John to gently raise his head, slipping a pillow underneath.

"Try to sleep," John said.

Sherlock smiled faintly, lips twisting into a sardonic smirk. "You said you weren't going to doctor me."

"Well, face it, you don't feel like doing it yourself," John replied, the weight of the blanket settling over Sherlock's body.

Sherlock didn't admit it, but he really, really didn't.

_Thank God for John Watson_, he thought sarcastically - but yet truthfully - as he drifted off again.

* * *

**Two chapters in one day. Yeah, I was working on other things earlier and got worn out and so all I'm really doing is sitting and writing and talking to friends. Yay. :p**

**Sherlock goes back to being Sherlock next chapter. So less doctoring and more Sherlock being... yeah, Sherlock.**

**Thank you guys for your support and I hope you continue to like it. I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks!**


	3. Case and Experimentation

"What happened to _you_?" Sally Donovan said, scowling at Sherlock as he stopped next to the body.

Sherlock ignored her and crouched down, pulling the latex gloves more firmly up around his wrists.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade echoed, probably the same sentiment.

"He's got a cold," John said, when he didn't answer.

"A cold?"

Sherlock stifled a sigh and tried to focus on the corpse in front of him, hoping to escape before he could retreat back to sneezing, sniffling, watering eyes and headaches.

* * *

"You shouldn't have gone out," John said, handing over the cold medicine.

Sherlock put them on his tongue, picked up his mug and turned away from the microscope enough to take a large gulp to chase down the meds. "Don't be stupid."

"No, I'm serious. You barely even picked anything out of that crime scene," John said critically.

Sherlock turned back to the lens, his irritation not hitting words. John was supposed to say that he was good, not that he had had a horrible time at the crime scene. But that didn't matter. He had a case. He just had to get through these experiments.

John returned to making dinner, Sherlock to his experiment. At least, he did until he groped for tissues and found none.

"John," he complained, pressing his fingers to his nostrils. "John, there's no tissues."

"Give me a sec."

Sherlock sniffed heartily, pinching his nostrils. "Make id quick."

"Use your sleeve."

Sherlock scowled and put his eyes back to the microscope, opting not to waste time answering the statement. He couldn't use his sleeve _now_ - this was a dry-clean only jacket.

John left the kitchen shortly, plopping their box of tissues onto the counter next to Sherlock's microscope. "There."

"Danks," Sherlock muttered grabbing two and blowing his nose heartily.

He sniffed and binned the tissues, going back to his microscope.

Two minutes later, his nose was running again.

"Ugh. Are you cooking something with onions?" he muttered, removing his eyes from the lens and grabbing another tissue.

"What? No. Why?"

"My nose keeps running," he muttered, sniffling.

John laughed dryly. "You're sick, Sherlock. It's just part of it."

Sherlock sighed and crumpled the tissue, again returning to the microscope.

He wasn't consciously aware of it, but, five minutes later, when John told him (forcefully, making him hide a wince) to blow his nose, he realised he'd been consistently sniffling through his experiment.

"This is so tedious, John!" he said, blowing his nose heartily again. "I've gone through ten tissues in ten minutes! And I'm getting nowhere on this experiment; I can't work like this." He rubbed his nose. "It won't stop running."

"Can't help you," John said.

"I thought you were a doctor," Sherlock muttered sulkily, clearing his throat.

"It's a cold, Sherlock. I can't help it asides from cold medicine and _taking it easy_, which you're not doing."

Sherlock sighed, which turned into a little cough.

He was just about to throw his tissue away when he was struck with an idea. He twisted the end of his tissue between his fingers, forming it into a suitable nib to shove straight into his nose. It was a little uncomfortable - it tickled - but it was a suitable cork in the bottle while he worked.

"You need to have something to eat," John said shortly, "so take a break and- What the hell?"

Sherlock glanced up at John. "What?"

"Why have you got a bloody tissue shoved up your nose?" John reached forward and pulled the tissue free. "Sit down and have something to eat."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, rubbing his nose roughly. "My nose tickles now, thanks," he muttered, flopping into the kitchen chair. "It was better than having to blow my nose every ten seconds."

"Practical or not, no," John said, putting down a steaming bowl in front of him.

Sherlock glanced down at it. "What is this rubbish?"

"It's soup. Chicken noodle. Homemade." John sat down with his own bowl. "It's good for you, especially when you're sick."

Sherlock sighed and picked up his spoon. "Wonderful."

"I thought you liked my cooking," John replied, blowing on the surface of his spoonful of soup.

Sherlock frowned. "I never said anything of the sort."

John smiled, putting the spoon in his mouth.

"Why are you smiling at?" Sherlock muttered, putting his own spoon in his mouth.

"Oh, nothing."

Sherlock swallowed the soup and licked his lips. "Is this _really_ going to help my cold? Mum always used to give it to me, too, but I never could figure if it helped or if it was more of a placebo effect..."

John shrugged. "Probably a bit of both. It has nutrients and it's easy on the stomach when you don't feel like eating."

Sherlock just shrugged, leaning over the bowl slightly as the steam floated up. His face hurt. Well, his eyes and sinuses, anyway.

"You need to go back to bed, you know," John said critically.

Sherlock sighed again. "I know that I _need_ to, but I'm going to finish this experiment first. And then go to Bart's, prove or disprove the murder weapon, and then send Lestrade on the right way to their suspect," he said, picking up his mug of tea and taking a drink.

"You're tired."

Sherlock knew that it wasn't a question, but all he did was shrug.

"Given that you didn't argue with me, that's really a big tip-off, you know," John said critically, not looking away from his dinner.

Sherlock stretched. "Oh, I'll sleep later. This takes priority."

"I know I'm not going to change your mind, so, if you say so. If it gets worse, you _are_ going to have a lie-in, if I have to drug your tea."

Sherlock paused, mug halfway to his lips. John looked up at him and Sherlock put his mug back down again, pushing it away slightly.

"Anyway," he said shortly, picking up his spoon again.

He didn't _really_ think that John had drugged his tea (although, to be fair, this would have been the time because he probably wouldn't have noticed), not yet, anyway. But he wasn't sure that it would have mattered. He was exhausted, anyway, and he was dozing off by the time that he had finished three-fourths of his soup. He was full and warm and darest he say cosy, so he propped his head up on his hand and let his eyes slipped closed for a few seconds.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned, opening his eyes tiredly. "What?"

"Go lay down."

"I don't want to," Sherlock muttered.

"I didn't say you had to go to sleep; just rest for a few minutes."

The pros and cons went through Sherlock's head at not-quite the speed of light. He could rest, get a second wind to finish the case. On the other hand, he might fall asleep. He decided that, given the nature of the case, the pros outweighed the cons. Especially because he wasn't absorbing much when he was half-asleep and miserable.

"Fine. Just a few minutes," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet and trudging to the sofa. "I'm not going to fall asleep."

"Okay."

Sherlock sank onto the couch, sighing heavily. He propped his head up on the pillow and rolled to face the back of the sofa, pulling his legs up.

"You want the hot compress again?"

Sherlock again weighed the option, finding this one had no cons at all. "Sure."

John put the compress against Sherlock's eyes - Sherlock had to shift his arm a bit to hold it there - and fanned the blanket out over him again.

"John," he complained. "I'm not staying here. Just a few minutes," he repeated tiredly.

"I know. You may as well be warm, though." John tucked the blanket around his shoulders. "Just relax."

Sherlock sighed, burrowing in the sofa cushions and his blanket. "... Maybe a half hour," he murmured.

"Anything you say, Sherlock," was John's patient reply.

Sherlock closed his eyes again.

When he opened them again, it was pitch dark in the sitting room and the flat was eerily quiet. Sherlock deduced that it was half past one in the morning and, while he had fallen asleep just after dinner with the promise of a half hour in mind, he simply closed his eyes and drifted off again.

* * *

**Thankfully, I'm more or less better from my own cold now, but Sherlock's only on Day Two. Sniffly sneezy Sherlock.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


End file.
